Mockingbird
by AnnaMarie890
Summary: It is one in the morning. There is a figure on the road. Very short snippets and concepts of a story I am planning on writing this summer. I will add little things here and there as they come. All feedback is appreciated, please tell me what you think. And also if this should be T or M. The Figure (c) is my own original character and it's behaviors and characteristics belong to me
1. An Introduction

I froze where I was in front of my dresser. I heard it, echoing deep in the dark corridors of my mind – her voice. My mother's voice. How many years had it been since I'd heard it? I gazed into the gloomy hallway outside my bedroom door. My finger tapped the light switch, but it was a stormy night. The power had gone out even before I went to bed. I grabbed my phone off of my nightstand and turned the brightness up, allowing the glow of the screen to become my flashlight. I stepped gingerly down the hall towards my late mother's voice.

'_Hush little baby, don't say a word… mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird…' _

I swallowed hard and my throat tightened as an all too familiar pain in my heart stirred once again. Regret, sorrow, desperation. Knowing that, if I had just asked her to stay for another minute, she might still be here today.

But… was she?

That voice… it was hers. I knew it. Was I dreaming? If I was, I didn't want to wake up. I found myself at the door of the guest bedroom of our house that stood just down the hall from the door to my own room. The voice was coming from inside. The door was cracked open, but I couldn't see anything through it. As I put my hand up to it to push it open, it swung swiftly and silently back on its hinges.

There she was. My mother. She was wearing the long black dress she had been buried in, her blond hair shimmering white in the moonlight. She had a heavy black coat about her shoulders, and in her hand a golden cage.

'_If you ask me to, momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird. I will give you the world. I will buy a diamond ring for you, and I will sing for you, I will do anything for you to see you smile.'_

I watched as she held up the cage and opened a tiny door, allowing a silky black mess of feathers to crawl out to her hand and up her arm until it rested comfortably on her shoulder. She pet it gently, a finger tracing softly over its head and down its smooth back.

"But if that mockingbird won't sing and that ring won't shine I will break that birdie's neck."

All of a sudden, my mother grabbed the little bird by its neck and crushed it in her palm. At the same moment, her own neck snapped, and her head rolled off to one side.

A sickening, horrible laughter sizzled through the air, and my mother bent over backwards, her back arching abnormally over to see me. My blood ran cold in my veins. Her eyes were all white and rolled around in her head as she moved, her cheeks were sunken in and her lips were smeared blackish red with blood.

"Hush, hush, little baby." She cackled and straightened up, twisting around so that her torso was backwards on her legs. I heard her bones breaking and her body began to collapse. I was about to scream when a sudden pair of thin arms wrapped about my shoulders, and I suddenly found myself muted. My voice was gone.

"This mockingbird will never sing again." I heard my mother say.

I looked up. I don't remember anything, but a black, shadowing figure and golden lines dancing on the back of my eyelids. Then, everything was gone.


	2. A Figure on the Road

It was cold and dry. The air hung heavy and smothering over the empty streets of the sleeping town. Clocks in every house read the same time, one in the morning. Then, all at once, the clocks jumped to life. Hands wound tight and screens blinked as each clock automatically reset itself to a random time. Five-forty three here, seven ten there; no two clocks read the same time.

A pair of gentle, silent feet shuffled down the street, balancing neatly on the thin white stripe that divided the main road of the small town. It was unclear exactly who the slow-moving shadow was. Male or female, young or old – it was impossible to tell.

All that was to be seen was a thin, frail, tall frame. The figure was all black, save for the empty golden bird cage it carried in its right hand. It was as if the cage itself glowed, the metal itself was alight. In the other hand, the figure carried a shovel. The shadow maintained its course, careful to let its feet touch nothing but the thin white dividing line. It hummed a cheery tune in a genderless voice, skipping happily on its way towards the graveyard.

The shadow melted through the chain link fence that was meant to keep fiends like itself out. The figure leapt up onto the head of a tombstone, balancing neatly upon it before hopping to the next one. A freakish giggle escaped the shadow's throat, and it set down the golden cage next to a random tombstone.

It hopped down and knelt over to get a good look at the writing on the stone.

A young man named Jameson Crutch killed by a drunk driver; only twenty-four years of age; married with one young son. This one would be fun!

The figure cackled and straightened up, clasping it's burned, bony hands together with joy. It stepped back a few paces, then struck out a long, thin leg against the stone, sending it toppling over and cracking into pieces. A few minutes digging, and there was a resounding 'crack' as the shovel struck the polished wood of a coffin. The figure tossed the shovel away and leapt down into the grave, wiping loose dirt away from the coffin.

Thin, bony fingers carved packed dirt out of the crevices of the coffin, cleaning it off as much as possible. Swift punches fell hard on the top half of the coffin, and the shadow cackled excitedly as the wood began to splinter under its barrage. Suddenly, the wood broke and the figure's fist punctured the wood and thudded into something cold and soft. The shadow pulled back the wood until it was just able to yank the thin body out of its resting place and toss it up to the surface.

The shadow knelt down and held the corpse of Jameson in its arms gently.

"I bet you had a beautiful voice." The shadow crooned.

Digging its fingers into the corpse's jaw, it forced the mouth open and grabbed its tongue, ripping it out in one fluid movement. Then, the figure opened its own mouth and yanked its own tongue out, sending blood splattering all over the corpse. The shadow shoved its tongue into the corpse's empty mouth, causing blood to dribble out all over its chin and down its neck.

Next, the figure pulled out a spool of silky red thread and a needle. It placed its hands on its head and popped its bottom jaw out of place, letting it fall down onto its chest. It carefully placed the corpse's tongue into its mouth and proceeded to sew it into place. Then, it jammed its jaw back into place and smiled excitedly at the corpse. It repeated the same procedure, cracking out the bottom jaw and sewing the tongue in place.

Then, the figure pulled out another spoon of thread, this one gold and glowing, like the cage.

The figure took out a thick, golden needle and attached a string of golden thread to it. It then dug the needle through the corpse's wrist and strung the thread through and around its wrist. It did the same for the other wrist, the ankles, and then strung another thread up through its skull and out the top of its head.

The figure then pulled each of the threads tight and proceeded to sew the ends into the fingers of its left hand. Then, the shadow then took the threads in its hand and held them up to its mouth, singing in Jameson's voice.

'_Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird.'_

The threads began to glow and shimmer in the darkness, and the corpse suddenly sprang to life. It stood, crumpled over unnaturally. The shadow cackled and flicked its hand up, causing the corpse to leap into the air. The threads died down, their golden glow disappearing until the threads weren't even visible to the naked eye. The shadow picked up its golden bird cage and handed it to the corpse, moving its left hand to make the corpse received the burden.

"And now, to find that little mockingbird."

It had been one hour. And just as the figure left the graveyard, its puppet corpse trailing behind, the clocks all reset, and it was two o' clock in the morning in every household.


	3. Chasing Cars

Theresa lay down on her side of the bed, gently pulling the cool sheets about her. She habitually stretched her arm out to where Jameson used to lay next to her every night, even though she knew her arm would encounter nothing but empty sheets. But then, there was a resounding 'clunk' and she remembered she had put Jameson's old guitar on the bed. She sighed and pulled the covers back, standing. She picked up the acoustic guitar lovingly and carried it to the office, setting it down softly in the corner, right where Jameson would put it every night before he went to bed. Then, out of yet another force of habit, she poked a head into her son's room and looked in at his sleeping form. He was a tiny child, only two years old. In his crib lay an old teddy bear, Jameson's mother had given it to him. She had said that Jameson used to sleep with it when he was little. Next to the teddy bear sat a golden bird cage. Theresa paused. She didn't remember putting that there. Suddenly, there was a gentle stir and the characteristic sound of a guitar chord echoed through the little house. Theresa froze, her blood running cold. Silence. Maybe the guitar had just fallen over... She crept towards the office slowly and chanced a glance into the small room**.**

There he was, same as always, back against the wall, ankles crossed, guitar in hand. He had his head bowed and looking somewhat away so that Theresa couldn't see his face. A gentle, familiar voice echoed through Theresa's head as Jameson sang their wedding song.

'If I lay here, if I just lay here... would you lie with me and just forget the world?'

Theresa felt tears welling up in eyes and a quiet sob escaped her throat. She knew she was dreaming. She just missed his voice so much. What she wouldn't give just to have one more dance with her husband.

Jameson moved, setting his guitar down and standing up. He seemed to move as if supported from his shoulders rather than his feet. His head lolled back and he looked at his wife through sightless eyes. Dried blood caked his mouth and neck, dribbling down his chest and arms. She squeaked in fright, and began to back away.

She opened her mouth to scream, but a thin arm wrapped gently around her waist from behind, and she suddenly found herself silenced. Theresa gasped and clutched a hand to her throat, trying desperately to squeak out any sort of sound. Nothing came.

"It's not a dream, love." Jameson's voice whispered softly in her ear. She wriggle violently, but the arm that held her was firm as a metal bar across her torso. She watched as her husband's dead body, frail and deformed from going stiff in death, was forced loose again by some strange power, and now crumbled and collapsed in on itself unnaturally. He took a twisted step towards her, and his brittle knees finally gave way, shattering, and the puppet tumbled to the floor.

There was a sick, joyful cackle, and a mutated, disgustingly charred hand reached up to Theresa's mouth.

"You always had the most beautiful voice, love."


	4. Momma Won't Hurt You

Theresa awoke to a screaming pain in her throat. She snapped her eyes open and doubled over, gagging up blood. Her mouth seemed... Empty for some reason. She tried to moisten her dry, crackled lips, and suddenly realized why.

"Oh, come now... Hush, hush. Momma's not gonna hurt you."

Theresa craned her neck over at her own voice coming from somewhere to her right. About ten or fifteen feet away at a wooden work table stood a figure. Her eyes widened in horror when she realized whoever, or whatever stood there, had in its hands, her son. She squirmed violently, pain racking hard through her body as she attempted to stand. A sudden, heavy jolt surged through her legs, and she tumbled back down to the ground. She tossed her head over her shoulder and realized her ankles were tied with some sort of glowing thread that was fastened to a golden cage.

"Oh, please don't do that."

She saw the figure turn towards her. It had a face, though the face itself betrayed nothing concerning whether the figure was male or female. Blood dribbled out of its mouth and down its chin and neck, splattering here and there with every word. It had a frail, sickly body and its skin was a disgusting pale-grey tan. It was clothed in a simple, filthy black cloak that clung to its body like wet paper. Two hands with spidery, long fingers were visible. Both were grotesque - hideously burned and blistered. A few short, silky spikes of hair grew from the figures head, and when Theresa looked in it's eyes, she saw shimmering gold and brass. And for a moment she was sure she saw the cogs and gears of a clock.

The figure knelt down and grabbed her ankle, yanking on the thread, causing Theresa to cringe.

"Now... Just sit still love. Be patient. There's a good lass."

The figure then turned its back on her and went back over to its work table, taking Theresa's son in is arms and pulling him closer. It seemed to chuckle, and moved so that it's body shielded the boy from it's mother's view. Theresa glanced about, trying to figure out where she was. All she could see was black. In the back of her head, ticking echoed rhythmically, growing louder then softer and louder again. Her body began to grow heavy and she had to roll over to spit out the blood that still gurgled up from the back of her throat.

The sudden cry of her child snapped her back into reality. There was a momentary silence, and the child wailed miserably again. Theresa thrashed wildly and pulled violently at her leash, trying to move the cage to which she was bound. It was impossibly heavy, and didn't even budge as the woman convulsed manically in a desperate attempt to get to her son. The horrible stench of burning human flesh came to her and she gagged, attempting to scream. The figure in black turned and smiled sweetly at her, cradling the young boy in its arms lovingly. Theresa saw her sons hand charred and bloody, burned like the fingers of the hands that held him. The child was sobbing horribly, it's tiny body convulsing as it cuddled into the safety of the warmth of another body.

_'Hush little baby, don't say a word, momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird.'_

Theresa heard herself sing, her own voice emanating from the throat of the twisted figure that now carried her son in its arms. Tear stung her eyes and ran hot down her cheeks. The figure just smiled at her.

"Hush, hush now."

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Next little part! :D I apologize in advance for typos... I wrote this on my iPad...**_

_**Anyways, enjoy! As always, feedback is much appreciated ;) Love to know what you think, darlings!**_


	5. The Puppet Maker

Theresa's head throbbed wildly and she felt like she was going to throw up. The air was still heavy with the scent of burning flesh, and she felt horribly sick. Her body had finally begun to crack under the strain of the harsh reality she had been thrust into. She was dying. Her sight was cloudy and her limbs were heavy and useless. She has lost track of the figure and her son in her panic, and now all she had to hold onto was the tiny sliver of hope that her son might still be alive.

Her legs suddenly erupted into pain and she felt herself get dragged roughly across the floor as the figure picked up the golden cage in one hand and pulled her over towards the work table. It set the cage up on the table, then reached down and looped its charred fingers into her hair, pulling her up and flinging her onto the table. Some sort of grainy, guttural noise escaped her throat in place of a scream, and she landed with a hard 'crack', on the table, sending an unpleasant jolt of pain through her spine.

The figure shuffled about silently, concentrated on sorting its various tools, like a carpenter or blacksmith hard at work. Fumbled about until it pulled up a strip of leather and a pair of nails. Theresa squirmed violently, but the figure grabbed her neck with a withered hand. It tied the leather piece tight around her throat, leaving her hardly enough room to breathe. It picked up a hammer and place a nail on each side of her neck, digging them into the leather and piercing through to the table underneath so she was immobilized completely.

Theresa trembled and sobbed miserably. The figure just smiled at her, ruffling her hair playfully.

"There's a good lass." It said.

She watched as the figure threaded a thick golden needle with the same, glowing thread that was knotted about her ankles. She felt it's hand take her wrist and roll it over so her palm faced upward.

Had she not been so restricted, she would have wriggled disapprovingly, but her throat was so tight she knew if she let herself panic about she would suffocate.

She felt a tiny prick in her wrist, and suddenly the cold metal of the needle plunged into her arm. She felt it piecing through her muscles and veins and protruding out the other side. The figure yanked the thread through, wrapping it tight about her wrist a few times, then picturing another hole through her wrist and threading it again. If Theresa could've screamed she would've, but all she had the capability to do was sob violently.

The figure proceeded to string her other wrist, then strung more thread through her ankles and feet. Theresa was sure she was going to die now. But for whatever reason, she hadn't been killed yet. The figure put a hand on her forehead and brought the freshly strung golden needle up to her hairline. She felt it piercing her skin, sending blood dripping down her face into her eyes and mouth, but it didn't pierce her skull. The figure just pushed the needle up through her skin and pulled it out the top of her head, yanking out a handful of hair in the process. It then yanked all the threads together and leaned against the side of the table, seeing the threads casually into its left hand. It hummed to itself in Theresa's voice.

'Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird.'

Theresa felt a horrible burning sensation seep through her veins, growing stronger and hotter with every passing second. Her hands and feet fell limp, and her head began to ache horribly, she felt like she was going to die any moment now. Instead, the figure untied her bloody ankles from the cage and ripped the nails out from the leather strip that bound her neck to the work table. She sucked in air greedily, only to have it mocked out of her and the figure snapped its left hand across its chest and sent her flying off the work table and tumbling inelegantly to the floor in a battered heap of blood and bruises. Theresa coughed and spluttered, blood seeping down her throat and swimming through her eyes. She felt herself get yanked upright from the top of her head and cried out in agony. She opened her eyes to see the golden glow of the metallic thread that strung through her body had diminished. In a few seconds, she couldn't even see it, and it was as if nothing was even there.

The figure admired its new puppet happily, quite satisfied with its work. It moved its hand up slowly, forcing Theresa to rise to her weary feet and look at it. The figure smiled at her, and with the small amount of control she still held over her own body, she folded all of her fingers except into her palm except one and sneered at it, silently mouthing her curse before passing out into unconsciousness, not certain if she would walk up, still suspended in her animators grasp.

_****__**Author's Note:**_

_****__**Here is the next part! :D Please let me know if you'd say it's still T or should go up to M. I know some readers are more sensitive than others. Thanks for reading, would love any and all feedback, and again I am sorry for typos... Written once again on my iPad.**_


	6. In My Arms

When Theresa eventually woke up, the figure was gone. She couldn't see much save for that she was in a small, dark room, almost like a closet, still suspended from invisible thread. A tiny shuffle of activity caused her to crane her neck over.

There was another body hanging up in the air not far from her, maybe about five feet away. It was a man who seemed in even worse shape than she was. He had pale, sickly skin and his frame was thin and fragile, the clothes that hung on him well oversized, as if he'd been wearing them for some time and had lost a severe amount of weight. The threads her hung from were barely simile, dripping red with fresh blood that indicated he hadn't been hanging there very long. Unlike Theresa, the threads didn't just loop through his wrists, ankles, and the top of his head, but rather laced through multiple points on his body; through his forearms and thighs and even through his stomach and piercing through his shoulders. He shuddered occasionally, the only thing that informed Theresa the poor man was even alive.

Suddenly Theresa felt tension in the top of her head and was forced to look away and at the figure that now stood in front of her. She sneered at it as it smiled sweetly at her and put down a tray laden with food. There was a sudden singe though her veins, and the tension all went slack and she crumpled to the floor. She looked questioning lay at the food on the tray, then back at the figure standing above her. As if to answer her question, her arm stretched out without consent and took the tray, sliding it closer.

Theresa was cautious, but the food seemed "normal" enough. Two glasses, one with water and one with milk stood next to a platter laden with pieces of chicken, vegetables, and bread. Theresa thought it odd such a feast be prepared for her, but the figure just smiled sweetly again and clapped its charred hands together happily as if overjoyed to give it to her. She saw the figure lose interest in her and turn to the other man still hanging from the bloody threads. Theresa saw the other victim gazing at the plate full of food longingly; the poor fellow must've been starved by the looks of him.

A harsh slap and a painful cry echoed through the small room as the figure in black brought a down sound beating across the man's face before reaching up and grabbing the threads all in a handful and yanking the man down. There was another yell of pain that only served in earning the man a hard kick in the small of his back.

"Hush."

Theresa suddenly gained interest when she heard the voice wasn't her own. She had noticed fresh blood trickling out of the figure's mouth but hadn't thought anything of it. The voice was a different one now, not fully distinguishable as male or female, but somehow the most familiar thing to her in the world.

The figure proceeded to drag the scrambling man along the ground after him, careful to let him stretch his arms out just enough to barely graze Theresa's person.

"Help me!" The man yelped in a breathy, mangled voice. Theresa stared blankly. The man still had his tongue? Still had his voice….

The figure and its captive rounded a black corner and left Theresa alone in the dark with her meal. There was a resounding 'crack' as the man was tossed unto the work table and his pleas for help were silenced as something muffled his already soft, squeaky voice. Theresa heard singing and the familiar noise of the figure rummaging about through its many tools.

'_Clouds will rage and storms will race in, but you will be safe in my arms. Rains will pour down, waves will crash all around, but you will be safe in my arms'_

As she listened to the voice this time, she suddenly felt an overwhelming safety, and the pain that still coursed through her body seemed to diminish. Was her mind playing a trick on her? Had she finally begun to crack? Was she going mad?


	7. Broken Clocks

Theresa finished her meal slowly, relieved at the comfort the food brought to her aching body. She downed both the glass of milk and the glass of water and took advantage of having temporary control over her own body, lying down and letting her fragile body relax gently against the floor. The luxury was short lived, as moments later she was yanked upright and forced to take a step back. She grimaced but allowed herself to go limp, knowing struggling would only cause it to hurt more.

The figure came back around the corner, dragging the man behind it again. He looked even worse than before. The threads that he had previously been hanging by were now gone, each replaced by a new thread that wound its way through the man's body by a new piercing. There seemed to be more this time, all strategically placed so that they wouldn't leave permanent damage or actually threaten the man's life.

The man was silent but weeping, reaching out once again towards Theresa as he got dragged by. She nearly gagged when he happened looked up at her and saw his face. His eyes were red and bloody, his eyelids sewn open into his forehead and cheeks. Tiny brass and golden gears had been stabbed into his eyes. He looked straight at her through his ruined eyes, and she wasn't completely sure if was completely blinded or not. He clawed desperately at the ground as the figure dragged him back over to where he had hung before and began to tie the threads up to some sort of crossbeam. The man yelped and his voice, soft and frightful, returned, though he only proceeded to whimper and mutter some sort of useless rubbish. The figure leaned down and grabbed his head; yanking him up by his hair and shoving him against the bloody black wall that stood behind the crossbeam. The figure proceeded to tie the man back up, careful to stretch his arms out tight, not quite tight enough to pull them out of socket, but very, very close, so that you could hear the poor man's bones creaking under the pressure. It then smiled and stroked the man's face gently before turning about to look at Theresa.

The woman realized she had been staring and whipped her head back around. Violent trembling overtook her body when the horrible thought that she was about to get her eyes destroyed in the same way entered her mind. The figure smiled happily and clapped its hands together, approaching her. It put a disgusting hand under her chin and pulled her head back so that it could see her face clearly. She shook horribly and shut her eyes tight, tears streaming down her face. She didn't want to see it. She didn't want to look at the creature responsible for all of this. She felt the threads go slack, and the figure took her hand and proceeded to lead her out of the small room and out towards the work table about. Everything in her wanted to resist, but she couldn't, and she walked out obediently after the sick puppeteer.

The figure led her past the bloody work table, causing Theresa to breathe a tiny sigh of relief. She watched as the shadowy figure picked up the golden cage as if it weighed nothing, its contact with the metal causing the gold to shimmer and glisten in the darkness. Theresa heard the constant, rhythmic ticking from before gradually growing louder until it was painful in her ears. She let out a muffled yelp and attempted to cover her ears, but she couldn't as the figure required she keep them by her sides. She grimaced, closing her eyes tight and gritting her teeth. Then, it stopped. She opened her eyes. She was in another, very small closet, and the figure was gone. She tried moving. Her movement was somewhat restricted, but she could pull up her arms to about waist level and shuffle her feet a bit. She felt something brush against her foot and knelt town, running her sensitive fingers over the object. It was a child's shoe. Her curiosity was suddenly sparked. And she fumbled about, trying to peek through a tiny crack in between the closet's sliding doors.

A little boy, maybe three years old by the looks of him, lay sleeping at the opposite end of the room. The child moaned and rolled over, exposing a scarred over, burned hand. Theresa gasped and began to cry miserably. It was her son.

_**Author's Note:**_

_**Oh, my goodness, I actually kinda cried writing this little last part x3 Anyways, hope you enjoyed! Please review, it would make me smile :D In all seriousness though, any and all comments to better the story are greatly appreciated, after all, you're the one reading it :3**_


	8. Heavy In Your Arms

Theresa began to fumble about clumsily, digging her fingers into the wooden doors like claws and shoving them to the side. The child seemed to wake up at the sudden rustle of activity and moaned, opening one eye. Theresa burst towards her son, sobbing wildly and trying with everything she had to say his precious name.

The poor boy screamed at the bloody, bruised and blemished woman lunging at him and began to wail.

"Mommy! Help!"

Theresa felt an unpleasant burn, and she suddenly got yanked back and swallowed by the closet once again. She watched, tears streaming down her face – stinging her eyes and tasting salty in her mouth – as another woman ran in and scooped up her son in her arms, cradling him and hushing him gently.

"Hush, hush now. It's okay… I'm here! I'm here…."

Ticking grew heavy in Theresa's head, and she dimly could see the woman still cradling her son in her arms as if the child was hers. She collapsed and screamed, clasping her hands over her head in agony and rocking violently back and forth. She felt herself drifting. She felt like she was miles out to sea and no matter how hard she tried, no matter how desperate the attempt she gave, she would never reach the shore. She opened her blurry eyes to see nothing but black once again, and a horrible laughter drifted through her head. She felt heavy, like an iron ball was chained to her ankles, drowning like a heavy heart of stone in a swirling river. Her feet dragged against some sort of invisible concrete floor, and she felt like she was falling over a waterfall.

"So hopeless. So all alone. So heavy in my hand. Losing all will to live. "

Anger suddenly coursed hot through Theresa. She let out some guttural noise and leapt upright, flailing her arms about in an effort to somehow harm the horrible figure inflicting her with this curse. Laughter rang through her ears as she swung aimlessly at the open air, and she stared blankly at the blackness ahead of her. Ticking echoed hard through her fragile skull and golden lines danced about on the back of her eyelids when she blinked. A pair of glowing eyes and a freakish smile shimmered, leaping about to and fro in front of her, making it impossible to discern the figure's location.

"Come now, my love, there's no need for that."

Jameson's voice taunted her. She wasn't sure if what she was seeing was reality or not. There was just the empty void and the dancing, teasing shadow with its freakish clockwork eyes, laughing at her. She shouted; horrible, empty noises escaping her mutated throat. She didn't care if she died or not now. Anything would be better than this. Knowing her son – her baby – was in the care of another – that her son would never know her as his mother – she couldn't take it. All she wanted was to die now. She wondered if the threads, though invisible, could still tangle.

She reached for her left wrist with her right hand and closed her fist over the tiny, almost spider web like thread that seemed to grow from her skin. She yanked on it, and found a small twitch of resistance at the other end. She trembled excitedly and began winding the thread about her neck, slowly forcing it tighter and tighter.

"Love, what are you doing?!"

Jameson's voice, worried and distant, came to her. She just hissed and spun around, still winding the thread around her throat. The blood had already begun to drain out of her face and her cheeks and forehead were going cold.

A sudden pair of leathery, ruined hands grabbed her wrists and began trying to desperately loosen the threads from about her neck. She cackled with happiness and reached up, grabbing the figure in front of her by throat and squeezing with everything she had. There was a sudden shudder of amazement before the figure began to fight back.

It grabbed Theresa's hair and yanked her head back, practically snapping her neck in the process. She just laughed and tightened her grasp. If she was going to die, this thing was going to die with her. The figure began to struggle for breath. The woman was fighting for her son – that made her stronger than ever. But the figure realized the woman's intentions. She wanted to die. So, therefore, it had to make sure that didn't happen.

Reaching into its thin cord belt, the figure pulled out a needle, jamming it into Theresa's left hand. She yelped and recoiled just enough for the figure to grab her arm and pull it away from its throat. It let out a shrill, ear splitting scream of joy and threw her away from it, sending her crashing onto the work table that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Theresa attempted to scream, angry at losing her chance of inflicting pain upon the figure. She scrambled to her feet, but was suddenly yanked back by her throat as the puppeteer forced its marionette to twisted life.

She felt the disgusting softness of blistered skin as the figure grabbed her hand and yanked the needle out, only to send it digging straight into the tip of her index finger, just under the fingernail. She let out a hollow yelp and hissed violently at the figure above her, kicking a foot out and managing to barely clip the figure in the side. She was rewarded with another harsh shove of the needle as it dug into her finger, scraping each knuckle as it dove deeper and deeper.


	9. Worthless Fool

Then figure paced about, its scarred hands swinging gently at its sides. It glanced over its shoulder at Theresa. She lay motionless on the work table, blood trickling out of her ruined fingers. Her fingernails were bent and cracked, the ends of her fingers beneath them swollen and infected. The figure chuckled. These live puppets were so much fun. A sudden rustle and empty moan from the man in the other room of the strange void caused the figure to tense up and emit a low growl. It spun around and swiftly made its way around the corner and approached the man.

"Shut up, you worthless fool!"

A hard slap across the man's bloody face accompanied the figure's harsh words. The man let out a painful cry, squinting ruined eyelids to cover dried out eyes. The unfortunate bloke let his mouth fall open again and twisted his wrist to reach out towards the figure's tense throat. The man's actions only served to earn him another fierce series of punches from the figure. The man fell limp, dangling in a bloody mess under the barrage. The figure breathed heavy, its clenched fists shaking. The man began to laugh quietly.

"You'll never be able to kill me." He murmured. The figure bared its teeth and growled like an animal at the man, then it relaxed and smiled sweetly at him.

"No papa, I don't plan to."

The figure put a hand on the man's cheek and dug hard fingers into his face, pulled his gaze to its own. Its expression hardened and a snarl echoed in its voice.

"Not until you've repaid what you owe us. And even then, if I do kill you, you will never be able to escape me. I will always be with you."

The figure shoved the man away from it and turned on its heel, leaving the man to his agony.

Theresa had woken up in the short amount of time the figure had been gone and was tossing her head back and forth and attempting to moan. She caught a glimpse of the figure approaching her and sneered at it. The figure smiled and dropped down into Jameson's voice.

"Now, now my love… why must you be so aggressive? After all I've done for you? After letting you see your son?"

At the mention of her childhood the humanity seemed to return to Theresa, and tears welled up in her eyes. However, all emotion quickly vanished and was replaced with naught but psychopathic rage. She opened her mouth to let out a noiseless curse and rolled over, dangling her legs over the edge of the work table in an attempt to put herself on her feet. The figure just laughed at her and flicked its ruined hand to the side, sending her tumbling off the table and sliding across the ground. Theresa fought back against her animator, yanking against its invisible hold. The figure simply walked over to the table and sat on it, crossing its right leg over its left knee quite comfortably as it played with the unfortunate captive.

This puppet was one of its favorites. She was so spirited, so mischievous, so very much _alive_. In truth, she was fascinating. True, she was insane by now. But she still had a human quality to her. She could pass for sane in a pinch if she just got cleaned up a bit. The figure traced its clockwork eyes over the dried blood that caked and stained her dirty, unkempt body. Her dark hair was sticky with sweat and blood and it clung to her neck and face. It chuckled as she danced and twirled about in a sick, surreal suspension beyond her control. Oh, indeed. This haunting would be fun.

**_Author's Note:_**

**_This one is a bit shorter than the others... but meh deal with it xD I didn't want to cram too much into one, so this one had to be shortened._**

**_Hope you enjoy! Please tell me what you thinks! *hugs*_**


	10. Flames

Flames. Flames were everywhere. Swallowing the small amount of oxygen left in the small house and licking hungrily at the once soft carpet. Theresa stared in silent shock. She could feel the heat, but it was... Distant. It was nothing but a gentle, soothing warmth on her skin. A big, empty gong sounded as a grandfather clock in the corner that seemed unaffected by the flames chimed out one in the morning. Theresa still felt suspended in the air, the threads that tangled through her broken body were tense and her feet didn't touch the ground.

There was a sudden blast as a woman dove through the flames and fumbled about, trying desperately to find her bearings. This woman wasn't immune to the flames, and for that Theresa was overjoyed. She recognized the lady as the same one who had held her son that night. Theresa dreadfully hoped for her to suffer. Slowly. Horribly. No pain that woman could endure would ever equal the pain Theresa felt. The pain of losing her husband, losing her son, watching her whole life just get completely blown away like ashes to the wind. She had lost everything. No physical pain could ever match the pain she felt in her heart.

Theresa watched happily as the woman was engulfed by the flames, her skin shriveling and melting away. Theresa laughed in merriment as the woman swatted at the flames that ripped the flesh off her body and attempted to make her way down the hall. Theresa's laughter ceased when she heard the wail of a child. She would recognize that boy's voice anywhere. Suddenly, she was human again, and she attempted to lunge forward, only to get yanked back in her animator's hold.

At the same moment, a man came tumbling into the room. Theresa stared in disbelief as the man she had seen across from her, suspended in his own tangled set of bloody threads, now ran towards the burning, crying woman free from any apparent injury. He had been fortunate enough to avoid the flames thus far, but his skin and hair were singed. He grabbed the burned woman roughly by the arm, screaming in annoyance.

"What's wrong with you?! Leave it be! The child's dead already!"

Without waiting for a response from the half dead woman, he dragged her out of the burning house and away as the wails of the child still trapped grew louder. Theresa wanted to scream. She suddenly felt the tension in her body vanish and she tumbled to the ground and into reality.

The stench of burning human flesh came to her and she felt a horrible pain engulf her body. She was burning. She let out a hollow cry and stumbled for the hallway. She had never given much thought to how it felt to be burned alive. Now she was certain nothing in the world could possibly be worse. She threw herself against the wall in an effort to quench the hungry flames, but her actions achieved nothing. Sizzling, cruel laughter mingled in the air with the sound of the crackling fire, and the screams of the suffocating child.

"Truly, is there anything on earth you aren't willing to do for your child? He is dead to you already! Just leave... Escape with your own life. It's not worth it."

Anger coursed hotter through Theresa than the flames that grasped her. How dare that monster – that _tyrant_—say that her child was worthless! What kind of sick creature could ever say something so disgusting?! The pain of her burns had dulled now, and her sight had begun to grow dim. She knew she was dying. If only, before she finally passed, she could see her baby one last time. She barely made out a dark doorway and a child wailed and stretched out its hand.

"Mommy!"

Theresa stumbled and fell, her skull cracking hard against the ground as her body began to shut down. She cried bitterly, opening her mouth allow empty, airy noises to escape her raspy throat as she desperately tried to say his name. There was an unpleasant tension, and Theresa got yanked back by her hair and tossed away. Her entire body was covered in burns, her skin shriveled and leathery, clinging to her bones like damp cloth. The figure just laughed and adopted her voice, leaning over the child to stroke its head gently. The flames still raged.

"Shush, momma's only gone for the moment."

The roof began to creak and beams splintered and crackled as the house gave way to it's attacker.

"_Now hush little baby don't you cry, everything's gonna be alright. Stiffen that upper lip up, little baby. I told you, Momma's here to hold you through the night. And if you ask me to, momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird. I will give you the world. I will buy a diamond ring for you, and I will sing for you. I'll do anything for you to see you smile."_

The little boy droned happily at hearing the sweet tune and wrapped his tiny hands around the burned fingers of the figure leaning over it. A wild, grimacing smirk crossed the figures face, and pearly white teeth glistened in the golden light of the flames. The figure grabbed the child by the throat, lifting it up and throwing it hard into the wall and into the flames that awaited it. There was a sickening snap as the child landed unnaturally on his thin, bony legs, and he sent up another wail as the flames began to close in on him.

"Smile, you pathetic little bastard! You're with your mommy now!"

The flames roared hot all around the unfortunate pair, and sickening laughter burst through the air.

The big grandfather clock in the living room chimed out two in the morning.

_**Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story! :D I returned to the original song, Mockingbird, that inspired this whole fiasco for the little 'finale' here :3 Would love to hear from you darlings what you thought of this crazy ride and whether perhaps you would be interested in a sequel? Let me know what you guys think! *hugs***_


	11. Mockingbird - A Poem

Flames of gold  
Faces of white  
Two black hands dancing all night  
Round and round they ever go  
The golden arm swings to and fro  
No music  
No rhyme  
No gentle tap  
Echoing, echoing through the black

Just the voice  
That I once heard  
Mockingbird, Mockingbird  
Don't say a word

**_Author's Note: Just a little short poem that came to me while I was bored x3 I'm not a poetry writer, I've never written or attempted poetry before in my life, but I hope you guys like it anyways :)_**


	12. La Luciole

Bailey tossed and turned in her bed, moaning quietly to herself. She was a small girl, even for her age. She was turning eleven in a month, and still had barely any meat on her bones. Her thin, fragile frame tensed and creaked as she shifted under the sheets. She was having a nightmare.

She was on a wooden deck, old, aged wood splintering and groaning underneath her. Her father was holding her, hoisting her small frame up on his hip. In her tiny pink hand was a doll. A wooden carving painted white - a human figure without a head. A small crowd of people milled about around her and her father, all of them nothing but fuzzy blurs of black and white.

"Daddy, I can't do it…" She heard herself squeak out.

"You have to."

Bailey didn't know why she had to perform this task, but part of her knew it was crucial to the survival of all around her. She had to throw the doll all the way up to Heaven. But she knew she couldn't do it. She didn't have the strength. She began to cry.

"I can't do it…."

The poor girl shed salty tears into her pillow, pulling it closer to her in an effort to warm the cold fear that clutched her heart.

A dark, shadowy figure loomed over her bed, shaking its head in silent pity.

It put a gentle, blackened hand on her forehead, and with its touch soothed the nightmare, replacing it with welcome emptiness. It sang more to itself than to the girl.

_'Dis-moi comment tu fais ton feu, Petite luciole. Dis-moi je veux savoir un peu, De ton secret. Oh, je serai discret, Petite luciole, Qui vole, qui vole.'_

The shadow crept down the hallway to the other daughter's room. She was a good five or six years older than little Bailey, but still claimed by the family traits of a thin, pale body and strawberry blond hair. The figure knelt on the side of her mattress and leaned over her sleeping form. It placed its hand onto her forehead and allowed the nightmare to seep into her mind. She moaned a bit and curled up as the fear began to pierce through her subconscious.

The figure straightened up and scowled at the teenager. It already didn't like her. The little girl was something different, she had a sweetness about her this one didn't have.

The figure passed through the dark silent hallways until a gentle ticking drew its attention out to the living room. A glossy grand piano stood behind the couch, across the room from that a tall grandfather clock. The figure hadn't noticed it or heard it before. The figure knelt down and opened the cavern to inspect the ancient cogs and gears that made up the antique timepiece. As expected, the inside was well rusted and bathed in a layer of dust. This clock hadn't chimed in some time. But now, as the shadow of pure evil crept over its face, the old grandfather stirred and beat out a steady, low tick, almost as if afraid to disappoint the figure before it.

The figure glanced out the tall glass windows and saw the sun rising. It scowled and rose to its feet. In the back of its head a helpless wail arose; an all-too-familiar voice prodding – taunting – mocking the evil within the creature. Clenched fists quaked in anger and the figure returned to its father.

_**Author's Note: The lullaby the figure is singing is in French (which will come to make sense later in the story) Here is the translation:**_

_**Tell me how you do you fire, little firefly. Tell me I want to know a little, your secret. Oh, I'll be discreet, little firefly. Flying, flying.**_

_**The nightmare Bailey is having is actually a nightmare I used to have as a young child. It was more of an incomprehensible dream than a nightmare, but for a child it was indeed frightening.**_

_**Exploring the Figure a bit more in the next part of the story - hopefully getting in a bit more backstory. Also, I wanted to explore the capacities and abilities of the Figure, though I am not sure if I will be keeping these updates permanently. Please, let me know what you think! I would love to hear from you! And yes, slow going action-wise. The next chapter will hopefully change that :)**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

_**The lullaby the Figure is singing is a French lullaby called La Luciole (The Firefly) by Jorane.**_


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